


Tell the World (That I'm Coming Home)

by ConsultingHound



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional, Fluff, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Not sure if explicit or mature but being safe, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingHound/pseuds/ConsultingHound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns after his fall. John has been waiting for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell the World (That I'm Coming Home)

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm slightly late (by an entire series and part of a hiatus) with the Post-Reichenbach fic but here it is. I hope you enjoy and if there are any mistakes please do point them out. Title is from the song 'Coming Home' and sung by Skylar Grey.  
> Thank you for reading.

It was almost night by the time he landed back in London. 

He was glad of the darkness. Even at this late hour, the city was still a myriad of noise and light but the tinted windows dulled it to a faint buzz of sound and flashes of light. In his absence, alleyways and bridge arches had become his friend once more.  Secluded, dingy, no questions asked. Simple. But his precautions had come at a price and now his first instinct was to shrink back from the exposure of the window. He was too much of a target in the open and there was too much at stake for him to risk it. Apart from now the threat had been eliminated. Here he was, back in his City that he has missed, pined for, wanted so badly it was like a physical ache in his stomach.  

However, the City, like it’s former patron, was never idle and there was too much to take in.  His body was tired. His mind was weary. What he needed was a break, a pause in time to regroup and reconnect. 

It could all wait for him. It had been patient for this long, a few hours more wouldn’t hurt. Besides, there was someone he had to see first. 

Mycroft had helpfully provided a car to transport him back smoothly through the tangle of streets to his desired location.

Unhelpfully the car also came with Mycroft attached. 

Sherlock was loathe to admit it but he had missed his brother in an abstract way.  This was not to say he wasn’t annoying, pretentious and a pain in the backside. Sometimes, however, his omniscient protection was useful and at the depths of his solitude, he was willing to admit to himself that his brother’s company would at least alleviate the boredom. 

Neither of the Holmes’ spoke. There was at once too much to say and too few words to express them.  Mycroft’s eyes never left his brother though, as if he would disappear should he look away. Sherlock’s gaze was fixed out the window, tracking the streets as they slipped away.    

The car eventually rolled up outside Baker Street and it felt...it felt...

Well, it was all rather anticlimactic. Of course there was the feeling of peace, of calm, of finally being in control.  But Sherlock was certain things would have changed while he’d been away.  On the plane and drive over, he was gripped with a dreadful certainty that something new or dangerous would be hovering over his flat and would prevent him from returning. However, apart from a new coat of paint on the front door, 221 looked the same as always.  The street was quiet and the atmosphere was peaceful in the late hour, only a few people wandering. A curtain twitched upstairs and for a few precious seconds a shadowed figure was discernible. Sherlock felt his gut lurch and his breathing hitched. 

 _He was here._  

Too quickly the curtain fell back and Sherlock felt the irrational cold of rejection.  There was no guarantee of how he would be received, whether he would be welcomed or shunned. Even Mycroft’s information had been meagre.  

He was faintly aware of the eyes levelled at him.  He should probably be making his way out the car now.  Normally he would leap out as soon as the car stopped moving (and on some notable occasions before) but this time, he couldn’t. His body wasn’t co-operating with his mind, his legs were glued to the car floor, his eyes still transfixed on the window.

It was only a quiet “Sherlock” that broke the spell and he jerked back, blinking out of his revive. “I have informed him of your return, as per your request.”

“Clearly,” he stated, eyes flickering back to the window.  “I assume you’ll be back tomorrow.” It wasn’t a question. 

“You assume correct,” Mycroft paused over his reply, his mouth open as if he was going to continue.  His brother rarely hesitated so obviously and it immediately put Sherlock back onto a knife edge. This was what he had been waiting for. The confirmation that all was not well at 221, that something had gone wrong, that he’d missed something, that he would have to leave again and not return. 

“I do hope your reunion goes well.”

A small part of Sherlock’s brain registered the fact his brother was sincere in his concern. He frowned. It wasn’t the response he’d been expecting but that didn’t mean his worries were untrue. He nodded his thanks before sweeping out the car.

He paused in the doorway, savouring the familiarity. The way the street looked shrouded in shadows, the distant hum of traffic, the smell of pastry and cigarette smoke which never really left Speedy’s awning. Depending on how this meeting went he could very well be back to experience it all again in a few moments but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Mycroft had not explicitly offered him a room but it was implied.  Whatever happened from this moment on, his brother would not allow him to spend any more time on the streets. However the longing for his own bed was strong. It was an odd one considering his disdain for sleeping in general but, he supposed, being on the run changes a person whether they wanted it to or not.

He took a deep breath in a futile effort to calm his elevated heart rate and his quickened, panicked breaths. As soon as he’d stepped out the car, the reality of the situation had sunk in. The fact that he was truly here on this familiar stretch of pavement. The fact that he was going to walk in and then _he_ would be there- No. He had to keep his control, just for a while longer. Just until he knew where he stood. 

Another breath and then he swung open the door. 

He passed through the threshold and let the door swing shut. He took it all in, the dim hallway, the clash of patterns between the chair and the wallpaper, the side table with the simple lamp, Mrs Hudson’s front door.

He leant against the front door, the grooves digging into his back. He screwed his eyes shut as he simply stopped, palms flat against the wood as it hit him.

 _He was home_. 

It was the creak of floorboards above him that inspired movement. 

His eyes snapped open and he glanced up the stairs warily before making his assent.

The door to the flat was already open, offering a full view of the sitting room. He tried to calm his wildly beating heart.

There were some minor changes, of course there would be. The haphazard stacks of paper had been moved, the books were all present on the shelves instead of strewn about the floor, the kitchen table was clean and free of science equipment.

But in the ways that truly mattered it was still the same.  The smiley face on the wall still beamed at him from the wall. Their chairs were still stationed by the fire. His old friend was still perched on the fireplace.  It felt like stepping back into a memory. He’d often frequented 221B, however indirectly, in his Mind Palace but it paled next to the real thing.

There was, however, one piece missing. 

“John?”

Sherlock repressed a sigh, as he closed his eyes and smiled. It was such a simple thing, a monosyllabic name that was so common it was entrenched with ordinariness. But, oh, it was so much more than that. That one word contained in it the knowledge that he had done it. He had kept them safe.

“In here.”

Two words. 

Two average, short words were all it took to nearly unravel Sherlock Holmes. He indulged in recording the voice for later when he could find and analyse all the nuances of expression but for now. For now it was enough to be able to hear it again.

John’s voice had come from down the hall, from Sherlock’s room. Why he’d moved in there from the neutral zone of the sitting room was a mystery.

He cautiously walked down the hall, hyper-aware of how loud his footsteps were in the quiet. Once again, the door was already open. 

The room was dark, the only light coming from outside the open curtains. He paused by the doorway. If they’d been in an open area then he could have run to his room as a retreat. Here though, there was no escape. Clearly John felt he had waited long enough.

The familiar outline was silhouetted by the window, arms folded, face unreadable in the shadows. Suddenly Sherlock’s limbs seemed too much for him and he couldn’t work out how he should hold himself, feeling as gangly as a teenager with a growth spurt. He stared at his shuffling feet, glancing up occasionally at his silent companion. It became abundantly clear that John was willing to wait.

“Hello,” he tried. 

“Hello,” was the level reply. Sherlock was glad to hear some amusement in his voice. Maybe this was going to be okay. 

“You look ridiculous," John said, looking pointedly at Sherlock's clothes with a raised eyebrow.

Ah, yes. He glanced down at the skinny jeans and thought of his curls, shorn off at the sides to make him look younger. But he knew that this was not what John was referencing. John was referring to the black and white stripy jumper Sherlock had on, swamping his skinny body so that it hung down to his knees. 

John hadn’t changed, the simple plaid shirt and jeans making him part of the memory.

"It made me feel more at home," he replied, a small smile curling up before he looked up at John. Saw the way he frowned and moved his mouth into that scrunch he did when thinking or deliberating.

It was Sherlock’s turn to wait and watch as John weighed his words. He silently admitted to himself that he would stare all night if could. That way John wouldn't disappear, like he had in so many dreams.

Whatever John was thinking of, he'd clearly made a decision. Suddenly he was soldier John, brave John, _his_ John, the one who would invade Afghanistan to help who he could or would shoot a cabbie just to save a man he barely knew. A man of instinct and reaction, self-assured in his choices. A man who had waited for so long and Sherlock felt a stab of guilt, knowing he could give him little to repay his time.

John started forward, quickly breaching the distance and Sherlock braced himself for the punch that would surely follow. It was to be expected really. It was only fair.

It didn't happen.

"Sherlock," John’s voice was low and steady and close. Sherlock opened his eyes and startled slightly at John’s sudden proximity. This close his features were finally distinguishable. Sherlock focused in on the subtle shifts, the darkness under his eyes, the slight stubble under his chin before drawing back, to look into his eyes. Not the blue of a perfect ocean but of the real one, the murky blue-green that promised a storm was coming, one in which Sherlock would happily drown.   

John’s hands came up to bury themselves in what was left of his hair, slowly as if to savour it, his eyes looking up to follow as the curls flowed around his fingers.

“John,” Sherlock whimpered at the tender touch. The softness was both too much and not enough. He wanted more but didn’t know how to ask, his words stuck because of the man in front of him. 

John looked back into his eyes.  He didn’t have chance to think as John yanked him forwards and crushed their lips together. 

When he'd imagined this moment, briefly, always briefly, he'd thought of the two of them lounging in their chairs beside the fire. The room was only lit by the mellow colour from the flames and the small lamp on the side table. It was quiet and peaceful, each person content. Their feet were dangerously close to touching, always pushing the boundaries of personal space. John would smile at him and get up from his chair. He leaned over and there would pause for a brief second before their lips touched.

 _This_ was not that kiss.

This kiss was harsh, striking, verging on brutal. This kiss was John pulling at the hair he’d caressed so reverently so that he could move Sherlock where he wanted; this kiss was him clutching at John’s hips as they both pushed impossibly closer; this kiss was John biting at his bottom lip and him gasping at the sensation. John licked his way into Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock could only moan and let go, allowing John to take, and take, and take.

This kiss was dangerous.

This kiss was thrilling.

This kiss was _wonderful_.

John broke off just as harshly as he had started.  Sherlock gasped again as he was released back into reality, finally feeling grounded. They were both panting but refused to widen the small distance between them. Sherlock stared at him, wide eyed, lips swollen.

"As you might have guessed, I am so angry at you," John growled and he kept his grip in Sherlock's hair tight, commanding all of his attention with ease. "You- you left. You left _me_ Sherlock. No, let me finish," he shook Sherlock's head slightly as he opened his mouth to interrupt. "But I waited. I didn't have to, but I did and at times I wondered why but somewhere, somehow I knew. I knew you’d come home, would come back to me, and now you're here and-" he paused, a look of revelation in his eyes. "And I want you. Right here, right now.  If you’ll let me."

Sherlock stood gaping for a minute. He was still struggling to comprehend the fact that John had kissed him, let alone the fact that he wanted more.

Or did he? Was John thinking this through? 

Sherlock knew in his own mind that he’d been attracted to John, wanted to touch and taste and feel everything. But John hadn’t given any clear sign of reciprocation and so he’d dropped it and hoped it would go away. Of course it hadn’t but that was beside the point. To be confronted with a reality where John did want something _more_ was a little bit hard to believe.

"Are you sure? I mean, are you sure this isn’t just adrenaline talking?  I would hate for you to do something you’d regret."  He tried to pull back a little and give John some breathing space but the iron grip in his hair stopped his efforts.

John’s lips twitched, as if he wanted to grin.  "Sherlock I've had three years of waiting without you around to think this through.  I think that's enough time to figure out what I want, don’t you?"

Sherlock stared at him again, using what was left of his scrambled deductive powers to check if John was lying. Either he’d become an excellent actor or John was being serious.

“You want me,” he stated, as if hearing it in his own voice would make it more real.

“Very much. Do you want me?” John’s question was tinged with a hint of uncertainty.

“Yes,” he whispered back.   

John smiled but there was glint in his eyes. The dangerous passion had not passed and he was calculating something. Sherlock didn’t feel nervous however. John would look after him. He always did. 

Sherlock arms remained curled round John’s hips as John gently pulled his head down to kiss his forehead, relaxing the grip he had on Sherlock’s hair to cradle his face. In sharp contrast to the fierceness of earlier, these kisses were feather light caresses, sweeping over his brow, down to his cheekbones, over his jaw, and then skimming over his nose back up to his forehead. Down, Over, Up, Repeat.  Down, Over, Up.  Down.  Over.  Up.  Sherlock felt his body unwind with each repetition, but he soon got restless. He shifted slightly and tilted his head to capture John’s mouth but John moved out the way. 

“Nope,” John whispered in one ear and Sherlock could hear the smirk rather than see it.

Sherlock grumbled and was stubbornly going to try again when his felt John’s teeth graze his neck.  His head fell back slightly with a whimper as John gently licked and kissed first the right, then the left side of his neck and his hand rose to John’s hair, both encouraging and steadying himself as soft, involuntary noises fell from his lips.  John nipped at the juncture between his neck and shoulder and Sherlock felt him chuckle at the hiss it produced. 

“John,” he whined, unsure what he was asking for but knowing he needed it now. 

In response, John pressed one last kiss to his neck before tilting Sherlock’s head back to look at him. 

“One,” he tried and failed to suppress his smile which only grew as Sherlock frowned in confusion.  But then he didn’t have time to work out what the hell John was on about because they were kissing again and he didn’t care about anything else in the world.  Nothing at all mattered more than the feel of John’s lips on his, John’s tongue sweeping over his, John’s hands gently brushing his hair, soothing it down after it’s rough treatment.  He groaned as John began sucking at his bottom lip which turned to a whine as John pulled back, _again_.  He was dragged a few steps forward until they were next to the bed, before John began pulled at the long jumper. 

“Come on. These clothes need to go,” he demanded.  Sherlock quickly halted his effort to press himself back along the line of John’s body to help eagerly get rid of the layers between them. Sherlock stood for a moment, his jaw falling open as he stared at John’s naked body as John shucked off his jeans and pants, kicking them out the way. Tanned skin faded into pale, dark blonde hair dusting his chest, trailing lower, and the small nicks and scars being dominated by the beautiful, terrible one in his left shoulder. John looked up and caught Sherlock’s stare. He grinned as Sherlock flushed at being caught out but was saved his embarrassment as John pulled him back in for a kiss. However, as his arms snaked around his back, John gasped and jerked back. 

“Sherlock, what-” John sounded panicked, as he tried to twist Sherlock round to expose his back to the dim light. 

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock said hurriedly, body suddenly tense as he blocked John’s attempts to move him. Sherlock couldn’t bear to see the worry in John’s eyes as fingers rolled over the gnarled path of his back as if he could both assess and heal through touch alone. 

“But what hap-“

“Can we not?  Later, but not right now.”  John looked ready to insist so Sherlock leaned down so they were forehead to forehead and whispered, “Please?”

John hesitated but conceded as he saw the desperation in Sherlock’s plea.  “Tell me if they hurt okay?” He tone brook no argument.

“Okay,” Sherlock said and he quickly kissed him. John allowed him control for a minute, dropping his hands to Sherlock’s waist. It was therefore surprising for Sherlock to feel his feet leave the ground for a second before he fell sideways onto the bed. He rolled onto his back, intending to glare but before he could, John had crawled on top of him, laughing. Sherlock’s breathing stuttered as John rested his arms either side of his head, knees bracketing around his hips, holding himself up.

John grinned before he ducked his head to Sherlock’s neck again, clearly not finished mapping the area with his tongue. When Sherlock began to writhe, he moved slowly downwards, kissing a line across Sherlock’s shoulders, licking at each nipple which elicited a groan from the man trapped beneath him. Sherlock’s hips jerked upwards and he gasped as his cock briefly brushed John’s, providing a moment of friction. As soon as it was gone, he was craving more, wanting the solid press of John against him. He whined as a strong hand came to press him back into the mattress. 

“Not yet,” John teased, and he resumed his exploration of Sherlock’s body, sinking lower and lower.  Sherlock bit his lip as he imagined that mouth around him instead of kissing his hip, trying to stifle the needy sound.  However, frustratingly, John kept going lower, sitting up and resting back on his knees so he could lift Sherlock’s leg up and kiss the inside of his ankle.  He tenderly made his way back up, pausing at the places that made Sherlock whimper the most, small abortive thrusts thwarted. 

“John,” Sherlock huffed, trying his best to squirm against John’s hand but found it impossible.  He didn’t even notice John’s grin which was quickly hidden as he mouthed the crease at the top of Sherlock’s leg, too lost in the heat rushing through his body.  Sherlock groaned, hands twisting the sheets beneath him.  If he could just shift his hips slightly more to the left-

But then the pressure on his hip and the mouth was gone and Sherlock groaned in frustration. Sherlock hadn’t realised his eyes were screwed shut until he opened them again, a demand on the tip of his tongue. It quickly turned into a moan as John tugged at his earlobe with his teeth. He just caught the whispered “Two” over the sound of his own panting. 

“John, what the hell are you- oh god.” Sherlock slammed his head back against the bed and John laughed breathlessly in his ear as he lowered his hips. They were joined head to waist. Sherlock could feel John’s erection next to his and he experimentally shifted his hips up. John cursed and Sherlock would have laughed if he wasn’t busy chasing that sparking sensation in his gut. 

“John, kiss me,” he demanded and their mouths crashed together as John began rutted to match his thrusts up. Slowly at first but then faster, and faster, grunting in time to Sherlock’s gasps. Sherlock moaned into John’s mouth as he brought his legs and arms up to wrap around John’s back.  He was nearly there, fingers dragging down John’s back as he moved his head back to tuck it into John’s neck as he panted desperately. 

Of course this was the point when John decided to move away. 

Sherlock nearly screamed and he suddenly was not especially sorry that his nails were digging into John’s back because it all wouldn’t matter in a moment when he _killed him_. 

“Do you know what I’m going to say?” John says and he even had the audacity to be grinning as if he hadn’t noticed Sherlock was going to shatter if John doesn’t resume his previous actions _right now_.  “Three.  Do you understand?”  Something twingeed in the back of his mind.  That number, it was significant, how was it significant and-oh.

That fucker.   

“Three years,” and Sherlock can’t help but preen a little at the pleased look in John’s dark eyes.  Sherlock pulled his head down so he can kiss him quickly before moving just so he can press the word “sorry” over and over again onto John’s lips. 

John kissed him quiet and shifted his weight so he can push an arm down between them.  “Quiet now,” he says, resting their foreheads together as he wraped a hand around both of them.  He dragged his hand up and down a few times, spreading their combined pre-come and making glorious friction.  Sherlock knows he’s babbling, knows he’s making no sense, mixing “oh” and “John” and “please” and “yes”.  John moveed his hand as quick as he can in the limited space and Sherlock’s back with that heat built up in his abdomen, growing and growing in intensity.  Everything around him is John, his smell, his taste, his heat, his noise, everything, everything and he can’t hold on any longer. 

He managed to choke out a small “John” before he came all over his stomach.  His vision blacks out as his eyes slam shut and he stops breathing as the sensation takes over, filling him from his hair to his toes.  He’s still shivering as he feels John tense, release above him and then collapse next to him. He pressed his arm over his eyes as if that will contain this feeling that threatens to overcome him, threatens to break him. 

The loss of his John’s body heat makes it worse, the shuddering and Sherlock would make a noise if he remembered how. Even John smudging a kiss onto his shoulder wasn’t enough. His world splinters more and he can’t contain everything he’s feeling, all the things he’d locked away because he _couldn’t_ feel them, couldn’t without wanting to bolt onto a plane straight home and lock the door, as if that made everything safe. 

He doesn’t notice John leaving or coming back and cleaning them both up, doesn’t realise until there’s a tug at the arm covering his face. He lets his arm be moved, too weak to do anything else. 

John looked down at him and sighed. “Oh, Sherlock,” he muttered, stroking a hand through Sherlock’s riotous hair and leaning down over him. Sherlock hadn’t realised there was tear tracks on his face until John kisses them away again. He allows himself to be manoeuvred under the duvet and onto his side so John can wrap him into a hug and mutter nonsense comfort until he’s calmed down. 

“Hush now, I’ve got you.  Don’t you worry about a thing, I’m here.  We’re okay, we’re all okay.”

Sherlock pressed himself nose first into John’s neck, making sure that he’s surrounded once more by John. 

“I missed you so much,” he manages to stammer out between his shaking. 

“I missed you too.  So much.  But we’re here now.  We’re both here now.”  Sherlock couldn’t do anything else but nod as he allowed himself to be soothed. 

He fell asleep with the feel of John’s humming an unrecognisable tune in his ear, John’s hands stroking his back. 

He fell asleep feeling warm, and safe, and loved, against the person who he loved most in the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr if you wanted to come and find me: consultinghound.tumblr.com :)


End file.
